


when the witnesses are gone

by velificatio



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drawing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velificatio/pseuds/velificatio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur might be leading a merry chase but it isn't Eames he's running from. On a hot morning, Eames commits his lover to paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the witnesses are gone

Four months before the personification of human wreckage that was Dominick Cobb cornered him in a smoky gambling den, Eames met Arthur in Mombasa.

“You would choose this of all places as a spot for a safe house.” Arthur sighed, wiping sweat from his face.

It was more than the lingering effects of the fourth of what was sure to be a spectacular row that had him perspiring so much. For a man now well accustomed to wrapping himself in only the finest tailored designs, Kenya’s climate was unforgiving.

Seated at a nearby table, similarly wet and unclothed, Eames considered the picture Arthur made. Long legs sprawled out shamelessly on those cream sheets, his hair wonderfully mussed, and the slim fingers of one hand stroking over his neck and collarbone. There were small beads of sweat clearly visible from a slight distance. Eames’ fingers twitched, itching to capture the moment.

He chuckled instead. “I know how distressing it must be for you Arthur, unable to wear even a two piece suit and vest, but unfortunately Corpus Enterprise has a very long reach.”

Pleasure wasn’t originally why Eames found himself in Mombasa; his last job had been a bust. Sold out by his teams own extractor, there weren’t many places his former client would steer clear of. Eames wasn’t one to put stock in stereotypes but he’d swear it was a particular American trait. Gun-ho, no stone unturned unless said stone laid in mid Africa or other unfavorable destinations. So he’d purchased a loft in Kizingo and planned on lying low for a month before flying out to Spain for his next extraction.

Arthur caught up with him first and now Eames was twenty four hours too late to purchase flight tickets and couldn’t bring himself to care.

On his lap Eames had a Parisian sketchbook, charcoal pencil held casually nearby in his grip. He’d been halfway through a rough outline of Arthur’s sleeping form when daylights first bright rays pulled him awake. Eames’ thumb brushed over the light black lines of Arthur’s cheekbones, smudged and smoothed those edges out just enough to imitate reality. Their bed of choice rested up along the rooms far wall and the remaining shadows framed Arthur in a rather dynamic set of chiaroscuro.

“Is it just me in that one?” asked Arthur, curious eyes focused on Eames' drawing book, “Or is Pascal in there too? Still can’t believe you turned him down in Buenos Aires.”

“He wanted me to stay for five months.” Eames said. “Darling, you know as well as I that wasn’t going to happen.”

It went without saying; Eames had needed time to himself and to rely on his own devices. Pascal was an impressive architect and lover with just the right engaging type of personality to hold Eames’ interest for more than a one off but by the end of their tryst each wanted different things from the other.

Although he and Arthur’s commitment was loose it lacked only in possessiveness. That was more than enough for Eames and the natural, unconscious arch of Arthur’s back as he rose out of bed told him the contentment was mutual. Arthur’s wasn’t here on an agenda of grand seduction. And while Cobb often played at dangling the assurance of Arthur before Eames as if he might finally be able to reel in his last great score Eames had no use for such conventional arrangements. Neither of them were people who desired to be tied down.

Arthur took a match from the polished dresser, muttered what Eames felt certain was a complaint about his habit of favoring matches over lighters, and lit a cigarette. He watched Arthur inhale deeply, blowing out a slow white haze of smoke from his flushed lips.

“It’s just you in this by the way.” Eames said, scratching his chin. ”I know how put out you were when Pascal brushed you off.”

The first hint of dimples formed on Arthur’s cheeks as he teased, “How polite of you. Doesn’t matter anyway. Milena was far better company in one week then Pascal was the entire Soscha job. But I appreciate you being such a gentleman Mr. Eames.”

Still smiling, Arthur went out onto the loft’s balcony, wrapped only in a single thin bed sheet. Taking in the slope of his naked back and the dip of fabric shifting with his hips, Eames felt like anything but.

 “Shouldn’t that sheet be up around your chest, protecting your American brand of modesty?”

“Piss off Eames.” Arthur said, playful as he leaned against the railing. Eames couldn’t view more than his profile but his eyes were on the streets below, watching everyday occurrences of Mombasa’s citizens. Years ago Eames caught onto the fact that Arthur learned mostly by observing and immersing himself in cultural settings and knowledge. What he lacked in conventional academic achievements was replaced by an education you couldn’t experience through books or online research. It had to be lived firsthand.

Eames flipped over to a new page in his book. He worked without a sense of urgency, starting with crisp etchings of Arthur’s shoulders, the slope where the nape of his neck connected with them. His gaze flickered between paper and subject only briefly. It was easy to commit small details of Arthur to memory and hold them strongly, vividly. In the span of mere minutes streaks of charcoal were cascading out folds of fabric bunched around Arthur’s lower back and hips. A silhouette of his legs could be viewed due to a combination of sunlight and the sheet’s transparency. Eames dotted two identical dips just above Arthur’s rear. A particular set of dimples he found himself growing more and more enamored with each time they met.

“You know,” Eames said, eyes focused on his work. “I still mourn the loss of how thoroughly we could have broken in that sofa Clarice imported from Hong Kong on the Charleston Job. Hot as your blood runs you can be prim at the oddest moments.”

Arthur scoffed and Eames glanced up in time to receive an almost offended glare. “The more we fuck in headquarters the worse your teasing gets. There’s got to be some fine line between work and play. I indulge your antics too much as it is.”

Despite the long suffering tone Arthur used Eames could detect a certain fondness lurking beneath it. Eames didn’t have a problem with professionalism so much as the very military operational approach Arthur took to each job. There had to be breathers at some point.

“We can’t all be sticks in the mud darling.” He said with a grin. “And I know my occasional impression of the class clown is one of your favorites.”

“Hmm, if you say so.” Arthur turned from the balcony, moving back towards their bed. Eames couldn’t be half arsed to protest the abrupt change as Arthur was far too lovely in motion. As he sat Arthur gathered Eames’ gold pocket watch off the nightstand. He fiddled with the device, holding it high enough to make sunlight glint off its curves. “Try not to gamble away your inheritance worth this time.”

Eames felt generous enough to let the condescension all but dripping from Arthur’s tone slide. “I’ll have you know that poker is an area I excel in.”

Money wasn’t something Eames had ever been used to being in short supply of and when at leisure he exhibited all the casual disregard for budget that typically came from bearing such a background. But he wasn’t foolish enough to flaunt his wealth. There were no lavish parties in hotels or on yachts. Eames’ indulgences weren’t as vain as that.

Days spent languid in the presence of a lover; tracing the texture of hair and skin or opening a third page to draw the same person as before, those were some of his favorite pleasures of all.

Eames took a sip from his bottled water, caught Arthur’s attention. He gestured towards the sketchbook with his pencil. “Mind if I -”

“Draw me again? Now?” Arthur looked about the rumpled mess of white linen sheets and pillows, cigarette smoke rising in a thin stream from his ashtray, the dying fedora roses kept in a stained glass vase on the table Eames was resting an elbow on. He smirked. “A bit old school romantic, even for a man who still buys pocket watches don’t you think?”

Eames’ voice played at concern. “Is that a complaint?”

“No you ass.” Arthur placed his watch back on the nightstand. He stretched like a preening feline, the warmth in his eyes and line of his mouth soft as he looked at Eames. “Go on and draw me like one of your American boys.”

“That was terrible even for your dry brand of humor.” Eames said. But he laughed regardless.

Arthur positioned himself comfortably, head resting in the pillows, and one hand on his stomach. His other arm was laid up closer to his face, the backs of his fingers brushing over slightly parted lips. The sheet barely covered him, fell just over a knee where he’d bent one leg but folded high enough for an ankle to show. Eames could see his patch of curls and soft cock, the pale flesh of his inner thighs he knew were soft to touch. Perfect to bite, and he could cull the neediest sounds from him with just his mouth suckling so close but not near enough to where Arthur craved his attention.

Arthur’s gaze was inviting, smoldering as Eames began his work. His chest rose and fell in a steady motion but his hands couldn’t remain idle. After drawing out the shape of Arthur’s head, grip easing into gentleness as he traced out where those slender fingers pressed over his lips and chin, Eames looked up to see Arthur stroking his navel. Up and down his ribs. So tactile, it was one of Eames’ favorite traits Arthur possessed. He loved to touch and be touched, even by his own hand and the lack of self-consciousness as he mouthed at his fingers made Eames’ breath deepen. Round five was just around the bend.

“Where are you off to after this?” He asked, smoothing out the buds of Arthur’s nipples.

Arthur made a low humming noise. “Japan. There’s a job with Cobol Cobb needs me on point for.”

And Eames, damn it if he didn’t try not to, couldn’t help but pause. “Still on the lamb with him then?”

“This month makes it two years, yes.”

Eames knew he was frowning openly. He didn’t care. “Arthur, I’m beginning to think you only come see me anymore when you need a break from Cobb’s presence.”

“Bullshit.” Arthur said, sharp as any switchblade. “I don’t work every job with Dom. He’s on his own often enough now.”

Arthur’s voice cut on an edge that keyed Eames into a possible reaffirming of relationship boundaries. The notion that Arthur might believe Eames’ vehement dislike for Cobb was fueled by jealousy struck him enough to stir an honest laugh out.

“I don’t dislike that you’re running with someone.” Eames held a hand up to quell any further protest. “I dislike that you’re running with someone so reckless. And desperate. There’s no doubt in my mind you can handle yourself Arthur but can you trust Cobb to have anyones but his own best interest in mind?”

In their business it was often fatal to be closely associated with another person. There was no honor among thieves and associations led to attachments and oh so tempting weak spots. Arthur might have built himself up in the criminal world but Eames made his mark in the upper ranks of corruption and he knew just as well that if information couldn’t be gathered from the source, their loved ones were next in line for targeting. The stakes got even higher when personal ambition came into play. Cobb had already gone in over his head once and had nothing to show for it but the loss of Mal and his freedom.

Arthur was in his element leading authorities, corporation heads and crime leaders alike on a chase. He was born and bred in the dregs of society, cut his teeth in the underbelly early. Cobb on the other hand was a proverbial fish out of water, better suited for the life of a professor than a fugitive. And his frequent subconscious sabotaging of their jobs had Eames in the mindset to work with anyone _except_ him.

But it was plain as day to Eames there was a bond between Arthur and Cobb just as strong as sound reason. Arthur’s stare was unflinching as he answered. “Yes, I can.”

And there was no argument in the world Eames could mount to conquer that devotion. He trusted Arthur’s judgment though; he wasn’t a man who gave his heart or loyalty to others lightly. Somewhere along the way Cobb had earned his keep with Arthur. For now Eames would respect that. He nodded in acceptance and resumed his drawing.

It was while considering the curve of one calf that impatience finally won out.

“Eames,” Arthur whispered, bringing a hand down to touch his cock. “Come back to bed.”

Eames stood at once, moving towards him. All his sketches of Arthur were unfinished but he never cared if he completed them. Memory and imagination were potent tools. The empty curl where a toe should be would cause him to remember just how he’d ran a hand up Arthur’s leg and drawn his thighs further apart. Blank space in black rimmed eyes would recall how hot and frantic Arthur was when he pressed their mouths together. How he gripped his shoulders and said his name in wet breathless gasps as Eames stroked over his hole, kissed his throat.

“ _Eames, Eames, Eames…_ ”

Charcoal and paper were fine instruments but Eames’ greatest tools were his eyes and mind. And there was an endless canvas awaiting new images of Arthur’s form.


End file.
